


‘til we’re grey and old

by kekinkawaii



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: And he damn well GETS one, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:49:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26360686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii
Summary: It doesn’t take much for the rest of them to notice that something’s wrong with Five.In the midst of the apocalypse, sure, maybe they had worse, more pressing matters to deal with—more specifically, the apocalypse—but now that the dust’s settled and they’re back in 2019, Five’s constant vigilance stuck out like a rusty, bent nail in a neatly stapled two-by-four.Everyone tries to help. Klaus succeeds.
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy & Klaus Hargreeves
Comments: 20
Kudos: 252





	‘til we’re grey and old

Allison was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee while Vanya stood at the stove with a skillet and a pot of freshly-whipped pancake batter. They were both humming something nondescript but familiar, maybe something Mom used to sing (but neither of them could tell you now).

Five’s arrival was acknowledged with a smile and a wave as he descended the stairs, wearing that same academy blazer as he had all these years—how he never got sick of the scratchy collar and too-tight socks, they’d never know—and if it weren’t for years and years of living in each other’s pockets, he would’ve looked perfectly put-together, stoic as ever.

But Allison swept her gaze over Five’s hair, just the slightest bit mussed; his gaze just the slightest bit too wild, too bright. There was tension running through his shoulders, a steady thrum like television static. Just looking at him made her ache in sympathy.

“Are you okay?” Allison blurted.

Five snapped to attention, and she could practically see the defences building up—shoulders rolling back, eyes going hard and flinty, one hand coming up to comb through his hair. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Vanya peered behind her shoulder to exchange a look with Allison.

“No reason,” Vanya said in a placating tone. “Want some pancakes?”

“No,” Five said shortly, striding to the cupboard and standing on his tiptoes to grab a mug.

When he came closer to Allison in search of the steaming pot of coffee, Allison, by some feat of sudden, unexpected courage, placed a hand on his.

Five went utterly still. His hand on the coffee pot, Allison’s hand on his.

“Hey,” Allison said, quietly. “You know that the apocalypse is over, right?”

Five snorted derisively. “Which one?”

“Both of them,” Allison said, ignoring the snark in his tone. She met his gaze—saw the haunted look in those hazel eyes before he blinked and shuttered it away. “It’s over. You don’t have to act like this anymore.”

“Like _what,”_ Five spat, like he really, truly didn’t know.

“Like you’re constantly looking behind your back. Like you’re going to be ambushed at any minute. You can relax, Five. It’s okay.”

Five was silent for a long time, his eyes fixed on their two hands, touching. Then, he tightened his grip around the coffee pot handle and snatched it up from the table, effectively shaking off her hold.

“I’m not stupid, Allison, I know it’s over,” he muttered, and poured himself a heaping cup of coffee and disappeared in a flick of blue light before she could say anything else.

Allison stared at the space Five had previously occupied and sighed, because Five had completely skipped over the last thing she had said.

Carrying two plates of steaming blueberry pancakes, Vanya came over to sit next to Allison. 

“That boy,” Allison sighed, watching the steam curl up and fog her vision.

“He’s been through forty-five years of apocalypse compared to our two weeks,” Vanya murmured.

“Jesus,” Allison let out in a harsh breath. “How has he not gone mad?”

“He’s a Hargreeves,” Vanya said. “We keep fighting.”

“Amen to that, sister.”

Vanya scooted her chair closer, almost shyly, and hooked one of her feet around Allison’s ankle.

They ate breakfast like that, the touch soothing something that had been starving in both of them.

Okay, so maybe it was a bad idea. Stupid, even.

Okay, so maybe it was a colossally and wholly idiotic idea. But in Diego’s defence, it was one of those long, cloudless afternoons where time trudged by like drops of pitch and boredom crept along the backs of necks like a troop of fire ants.

And, if you were to ask either of them, _he_ started it.

Luther and Diego were sprawled on either end of the couch, the former taking up significantly more space than the latter, as was made evident by the way Diego constantly complained about it for the past hour.

“Get your own couch,” Luther replied.

“Get _your_ own,” Diego retorted—probably not the wittiest remark, he’d admit. “You’d probably need to go to some special store, though, dunno if IKEA sells ape-sized couches.”

To retaliate, Luther lifted the foot that Diego had been sitting on, lifting him three clean inches into the air.

Diego let out an indignant squawk as he fell back onto the couch. Luther leaned his head back on folded arms and smiled.

Diego narrowed his eyes, and then he slid a tiny blade out of the inseam of his sleeve, gripped it between his index and thumb, and flicked his wrist.

The blade sliced a clean groove out of Luther’s hair, right over his ear.

Luther, inexplicably, went cross-eyed.

Diego laced his fingers together and rested his chin on his hands, grinning impassively.

Luther let out a huff, half-amused, half-exasperated. He got a look in his eyes that Diego knew well, because he was mirroring it right back.

For a few seconds, they were still.

Both of them lunged at the same time.

Luther grabbed. Diego twisted. Luther pinched. Diego scratched.

They were briefly, vaguely aware of each other’s shouts, mingled with laughter—punches thrown with careful effectiveness, enough to bruise but not to break.

They fell off the couch and hit the carpet with a dull, heavy thud. They rolled together, half-fighting half-flailing, the other’s weight a solid and comforting mass on their own body, proof of each other’s continued existence.

And then suddenly a third was introduced into the equation, appearing out of thin air and in between them both—yanking them apart with a grip that was so strong it tore a strip out of Luther’s shirt.

_“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”_

Diego was hauled up by his collar, and found himself face-to-face with a very small, very _angry_ Five.

“Uh,” he said.

Five’s eyes were wide as saucers. They were bloodshot, Diego noted, crooked lines of deep, furious red. Was he sleeping enough?

“We were, uh,” Luther said helpfully. He was being held by Five’s other hand, and the size difference would’ve looked nearly comical if not for the promise of death in Five’s glare.

“This is _not_ the time for fighting,” Five seethed. “Whatever the hell you two were on, you have got to stop this, now. I thought you were over this petty sibling rivalry, but I suppose maturity comes in the psychological form rather than the physical.”

“I, wait, what?” Diego said. “Oh, no—Five, we weren’t—it wasn’t like _that.”_

“We weren’t actually fighting,” Luther suggested.

Five looked at the two of them balefully. His eyes caught on a spot on Diego’s arm that was bleeding just the slightest, from when Luther had dug his nails in when they rolled off the couch.

“Okay, we were a little,” Diego admitted. “But not because we were fighting!”

Five gave him that deadpan look that suggested he was sprouting bullshit off the top of his head.

“It was for fun,” Luther offered.

Five notched the look up to a twelve and turned it towards Luther.

“You’re _fighting,”_ he said, voice dangerously soft, “for _fun?”_

At the two identical nods, Five’s grip loosened. He stepped back, brushing invisible dust off of his blazer (seriously, that thing was itchy as fuck, Diego didn’t understand why he wore it all the time).

“That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard,” Five proclaimed.

Diego and Luther exchanged a look and a split-second argument. Luther won. Diego gave him a half-hearted glare before turning to Five.

“Five,” he approached as if he were poking a sleeping, highly-venomous viper. “You realize the apocalypse is _over,_ right?”

Five threw his arms up in the air. “Yes! I know that!”

“We were just messing around,” Luther said. “You don’t have to be on guard all the time, you know. Just relax a little. Have some fun.”

Five was still for a moment, chest heaving, eyes darting all over the place in that residual mildly-unhinged way of his that seemed to have carried over from the apocalypse-times.

Without speaking, he turned around and poofed in a spark of blue light.

“Well, that went well,” Diego said sarcastically. Luther punched him in the arm.

Klaus couldn’t sleep.

This was normal.

No, for real. This wasn’t a post-apocalypse, post-Vietnam, post-PTSD, post-everything kind of thing. Funnily enough, it wasn’t even a post-mausoleum kind of thing.

Nah. Sometime during his own creation, his body looked at his sleep habits and decided that it was going to fuck shit up just for the sake of it. Klaus didn’t know how to sleep since he was a wee lad, and that was just how things were.

He had gotten pretty used to it, at least. He could spend hours lost in his own mind, could tell you every swirl and paint speck on the ceiling of his room from memory alone.

Today felt like a walking sort of night, though, so instead of staring at the ceiling for hours, Klaus was going to stare at the walls of the empty house for hours instead.

He went down the stairs—careful not to step on the spots that creaked—and, rubbing his eyes, trudged into the kitchen. Maybe tonight would be a chamomile tea night, too, which he really needed to be careful about, because it was only two inches away from a vodka cranberry night, and even though Ben was _(don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it)_ gone, he could still see the turned-down eyes and the quiet disappointment in his voice.

He turned the corner and let out a half-strangled yelp.

Five, who had been sitting on the kitchen counter, raised his head. He hadn’t noticed Klaus coming in, which nudged something worrying inside Klaus’s head, because Five _always_ notices when someone comes in.

“Klaus,” Five said, and his voice was raw. He was wearing his sleep pyjamas, and they looked too big on his tiny frame. Klaus had a stark thought, sharp worry, that maybe Five hadn’t been eating enough.

Klaus raised his _hello_ hand, then peered at Five closer and said incredulously, “Are you _crying?”_

(He didn’t have the best brain-to-mouth filter.)

Five flinched as if he’d been struck, and then brought up both hands to swipe over his eyes in a messy, harsh gesture. “No,” he lied.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Klaus sang, coming closer. “You are so totally crying.”

“Am not,” Five muttered, turning his head back down to his knees, which were drawn up to his chest.

“Hey, hey,” Klaus said, feeling his worry ratchet up a few levels. He put a hand on Five’s shoulder. Five trembled like a leaf. The sight knocked something loose inside of Klaus, and he let his hand settle and smooth over Five’s shoulder, squeezing firmly before stroking down his arm. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Five said. “Go away.”

“No can do,” Klaus said good-naturedly. “Tell me what’s wrong or I’ll wake up the whole house. Oh, _Fiiiiiiive—”_ He raised his voice into a holler.

Five’s hand shot up and clapped over his mouth, cutting him off. He raised his head, glaring in a way that would probably be scary if not for his watery eyes.

Klaus smiled under Five’s hand, and then licked his palm.

Letting out a disgusted noise, Five retracted it. “Seriously, Klaus, are you _five?”_

“No, _you’re_ Five,” Klaus said, and giggled.

Five rolled his eyes. 

“So, tell me what’s wrong,” Klaus coaxed.

“Nothing,” Five said, and when Klaus drew in a deep breath in warning, he quickly added, “I just couldn’t sleep. It’s fine.”

“Nightmare?” Klaus prodded.

Five paused, visibly reluctant, and then nodded.

Klaus cooed in sympathy. “Wanna talk about it? You can pretend I’m a hot therapist. I’m already halfway there.” He winked.

Five rolled his eyes again. “It’s nothing,” he said, for the millionth time, and seriously, was he stupid, thinking that anyone believed that.

“Awww, c’mon,” Klaus whined. “Were you late to school and then realized you were in your underwear?”

“Klaus, we never went to school.”

“Were you attacked by a rabid swarm of clowns?”

“What—no.”

“Were you being molested by a giant squid?”

“What?”

“Then what?”

“I dreamt that all of you were dead.”

“Oh, well,” Klaus started, and then did a double-take. “You—oh.”

Five drew his knees higher to his chest, skinny arms hugging them close. “Except it wasn’t just a dream, because it happened in real life. All of you were dead, and I was almost dead, and _all of you were—”_ His voice cut off into a sharp inhale, almost a gasp.

“Woah, woah,” Klaus said. “I know I’ve probably been less than fully conscious to many a family meeting, but I didn’t get _this_ memo. When did we die, again?”

There was visible tension through Five’s entire body, and he was shivering just the slightest. “In the barn,” he muttered, so quietly Klaus needed to lean in to hear him. “The Handler shot us all. Shot all of you. Dead.”

“Hey,” Klaus said. “But I’m right here. We’re all here.”

“I know that,” Five snapped. “I time-travelled us back. Fixed it. Fixed everything.” His voice dropped into a murmur, sounding dazed, like he was speaking to himself. “But it was so close, _so_ close, and what if next time, next time I can’t?”

Klaus prodded the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Five, you realize that the apocalypse is over, right?”

 _“Why does everyone keep telling me that?”_ Five cried out, loud enough for Klaus to flinch. “I know! I know, because I _lived through both of them,_ because I had to _fix_ it, fix _everything!”_

“Don’t take all the credit,” Klaus said wryly, because he never learned to be careful, “all of us fixed it. Together.”

He watched Five suck in several deep breaths trying to pull himself together, and then poked him on the shoulder. “Hey, scooch over.”

With a grunt, Klaus hoisted himself up onto the kitchen counter. Under the suspicious, confused gaze of Five, he slid across the marble until he was pressed up, side-to-side, against his brother.

He felt the moment Five realized their situation—he shuddered, and then relaxed, sinking into Klaus’s side like he was meant to be there all along.

The kitchen was dark in the night, but nowhere as dark as the mausoleum had been. In the distance, he could hear an owl hooting softly and the chirping of the crickets. The mausoleum had been as silent as the dead—for lack of a better saying, because the dead had certainly not been silent.

This was not the mausoleum. He wasn’t scared little Number Four.

But when he was, Five had been there for him, piercing through the darkness in a brilliant stream of blue sparks. 

_(“Dad said—”_

_“Dad’s an idiot,” Five proclaimed. “Scooch over.”_

_“But I—”_

_But Five was already there, pressed along his side, warm and solid and so very alive. Klaus sighed, sheer relief making his eyes sting with tears._

_“Are there lots of them?” Five asked, quiet and solemn in that too-old way of his. Klaus had always envied that. Sometimes it seemed as if Five should be the oldest one in the family._

_“Thousands,” Klaus whispered, watching the ghosts twist and writhe._

_“Well, I’m here,” Five said, almost haughtily. “And I won’t let anything happen to you.”_

_Klaus felt Five’s hand slip into his. He closed his eyes and smiled.)_

Five was still tense. Klaus could feel it, with his body pressed up against him.

“We’re all here,” Klaus continued, trudging along determinedly. “It’s really over, Five. We did it together. You’re not alone anymore.”

“I know that,” Five said, a stuttering, broken record. “I don’t know what’s _wrong_ with me.”

Klaus was nearly amused. Only Five would sound _annoyed_.

“You’ve been through two apocalypses,” Klaus said. “You were alone for forty-five years. You watched your whole family get killed, and then reversed _time_ to save us—which is totally badass, by the way. You _deserve_ to be scared. But you don’t have to do it alone. And let me tell you a little secret: we _all_ feel like this sometimes, Five. You’re just late to the party.”

“How do you deal with it?” Five whispered.

“Well, for starters, you need to take that stick out of your ass and let us help.” Klaus grinned at the way Five bristled. “And I’ve heard hugs do wonders.”

There was a long silence.

“I left her in a clothing store,” Five mumbled.

Klaus paused. “What?”

“Dolores,” Five said. “She’s in a better place now. I can’t bring her back just to hug.”

Klaus was speechless. “Are you being totally dense on purpose, or are you actually this stupid?”

Five bristled again, and opened his mouth to say something undoubtedly scathing, but before he could say anything, Klaus did what he should’ve done a long, long time ago—he reached his arms around Five and tugged him into a full, hard hug.

Five stiffened. He felt like a mannequin in Klaus’s arms. If this is what hugging Dolores felt like, no wonder Five didn’t hug people often—he didn’t know how good the real deal was. 

Klaus soldiered on, lightly stroking Five’s back and humming quietly under his breath until he felt the tension slipping away, ounce by ounce.

“See?” Klaus murmured. “Isn’t this nice?”

“Just a little,” Five said, stubborn until the last breath. He yawned.

“Go to sleep, now,” Klaus shushed.

“But—”

“Butts are for pooping,” Klaus said, and felt Five snort against his shoulder. “Just go to sleep. It’s okay.”

Five didn’t respond, but Klaus felt him let go of the last bit of tension, muscles turning to putty. Slowly, sleepily, Five’s hand came up and grabbed Klaus’s shirt, tangling the fabric in between slack fingers.

Klaus shut his eyes at the sudden strange _tug_ in his chest. Five was so—so small. Without his consciousness constantly putting up those defences, he was so small, and soft, and achingly vulnerable—and so much was running through that huge mind of his that Klaus marvelled at his ability to hide it all.

“We won’t let anything happen to you,” Klaus promised to himself, and the others. He let the words hover in the stagnant air of the approaching dawn.

The apocalypse was over.

**Author's Note:**

> Binged S2 in the span of two days and fell in love with Five all over again. Klaus was a close second. I told myself I wouldn't write fic, and then I wrote it anyway. The title is from the song Say You Won't Let Go by James Arthur.  
> Thank you so much for reading! Please comment if you liked it, and let me know if you'd like to see more <333


End file.
